Ashes to Ashes
by Mikanis
Summary: Near has just arrived at Wammy's house at the young age of seven. Trauma mute, and incurably introverted, how will he adjust to the entirely open ended story they've offered? Rated M for Mature themes. Spoilers for character names, not much else. Mikanis
1. A Bunny Called Love

AN- This is the companion story to "Welcome to Wammy" and follows the same premise, detailing the life of Near. I say companion story because they are both stand-alone, but play off the same events. This one is also rated M, because I have come to terms with the fact that I could not write fluffy, light subject matter if my life depended on it. Even my fluffy moments are later ruined by something. That being said, I hope you enjoy this story, but be aware that I write about heavy subjects...pain, trauma, and the general Tom-foolery that is the human life. Because that's all this is...taking a character, and trying to make them human. With Love-Kani

Chapter1 A bunny called Love.

He didn't want to know why he was there. If he knew why, then he had to accept what had happened, and that cannot happen…at all. He was courting madness to flirt with murder. Still the pain at his temple brought him back and reminded him that it was done and he couldn't change it. The white hair wrapped tightly around his knuckle grounded him firmly, here…in the 'this' and the 'now'.

"I understand that your mother's murder has yet to be solved. I want you to know that we will do our best to put her at ease."

Nate did not look up when the old voice spoke, because the voice is what scared him. The voice is what drove him deeper into himself, away from wherever this place was. He hugged himself tighter, until the muscles of his leg began to cramp from the strain of his unusual position. One leg up, to protect his stomach…the other down, should he need to run, and he chose to sit this way.

He did not cry.

He did not tremble.

The voice came again, and his large dark eyes closed, hearing, and wishing so desperately that he didn't.

"We're not trying to replace your Mother, Nate. We just want to take care of you…teach you, and help you grow. Do you understand?" His eyes flickered open again before he clamped them shut with a jerk of his chin that could have been a nod.

He understood.

He did not like it. He didn't like this place, this place of many children. Too many other minds, too many voices.

"We're going to call you Near. One day, you'll be able to put it behind you, and we'll be there to help. Eric will show you to your room."

The man came back, and Nate stood slowly, his arms wrapping firmly around his small stomach as he shuffled after him. The door closed, and there were more doors…several doors, hundreds of doors here. Too many, and he felt so small. Eric, the man, he was young, but tall…he walked beside him.

Near pulled away slightly, though he wanted to grip the hem of that shirt, bury his face into his side, and be held for a moment. No, he knew better now.

Eric lead him up the stairs, to a long empty hall, quiet. A moment and the key sounded in the lock, the white door swinging inward. Nate stepped into his room, and didn't turn when the lock sounded, trapping him there.

There was a bunny…there on the bed. He shuffled forward slowly, peering quietly at it as it rested on his pillow. There was a small collar around the stuffed animal's neck, a small brass coin reading 'Love', held on by a blue ribbon. The seven year-old in him took over then, and he remembered the small child that he was. He scrambled onto the bed with a half-choked whimper, and clutched the bunny to his chest. The tears came…in the dark, behind the locked door. The strange bunny grew warm as his chest heaved with tiny sobs, because he dared not cry loudly. No…no one would know. He would cry, for his mother, for his brother, and for himself…and only 'Love', would know.

His mind called him foolish. The remainder of his heart called him wise, for letting it out now…here, alone, where only he would know. It offered solace, to be in control of his weakness if nothing else.

A finger twisted into his hair hard, pulling until he heard a strand or two snap in the utter silence of the room. He looked to the side, and found a window overlooking the English winter. White…a vast expanse of virgin snow, rolling gently as a calm sea. He'd never been to England before. He could hardly appreciate it now, in the middle of the night, after hours of not knowing where he was headed simply because he could not find his voice to ask.

Wammy's House, they'd called it.

It wasn't home. His mother wasn't here, and she never would be, because when he'd last seen her…

The sobs came harder, but the bunny didn't mind. His eyes felt heavy after half an hour or so, and he curled into the pillow with the bunny still plastered to his shirt front.

There, at one in the morning after an exhausting jet trip from Toronto, Canada…Nate River finally fell asleep.

XXXX

"Is he sleeping?"

"Yes sir…cried himself right out, the poor thing."

"If he dreams take him cocoa with a mild sedative…he needs to rest. Now, let's review his file."

"Yes sir…Nate River, seven years old, witnessed the murder of his small family, and was found in a small orphanage outside Toronto. Our representative claims that he has an amazing mind, but the trauma sent him mute. We don't know when he'll start talking again."

"Well, we're not going to rush him."

"He's albino, small for his age, collected toys. Our rep. says he likes to stack things..."

"Logical then…good."

"He hates being spoken to, though he still responds to verbal cues and conversation. He hasn't said a word in four months."

"He will speak again, however?"

"Yes, the damage is completely psychological. When he's ready to speak, he will…though it's possible that he doesn't know why he can't talk. Until then, we'll have to read his body language and possibly teach him sign language."

"Alright, we'll have Sarah start working with him in a few weeks. Tell Penny that I want his outfit duplicated, no variations."

"It's not a problem sir, we can have that taken care in less than a day."

"Good." Roger turned a page, reading through the sheet again. "He was completely catatonic the first few days after the murder?"

"Yes sir. Then on the third day he got up and this is how he's been ever since."

"Is he religious?"

"…Not anymore."

"Alright then. Tell housekeeping to take the bible out of his dresser then. What else does he like?"

"Puzzles, sir."

"Good. Wait until he opens up some, then show him the catalogue so he can pick a few."

"Yes sir."

"Eric?"

"Yes sir?"

Roger sighed, sitting at his desk and watching his newest ward sleep. "When he gets hungry, give him anything he wants, but supplement it. He's too small."

"Understood. I'll see you in the morning."

"Night son." Roger donned his reading glasses and pulled out The Hound of Baskervilles, settling in for his customary First Night's Guard.


	2. A Window

_A Week Later_

"Near, you have to pay attention, honey." Nate didn't glance at the woman beside him, instead placing another die on top of his dice city. When it didn't topple, he gingerly turned it so that the numbers lined up, like the rest of the structure. The woman sighed, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged it off and reached into the bag again, dice rattling through his fingers as he laid a fistful on the floor before him.

"Near, I have to teach you how to talk. We're going to learn sign language." Near glanced at her, wrapping a finger into his hair in irritation…it was so easy to drift off again. He shook his head once, and went back to his building.

"Near, you have to pay attention, now. I don't have long." He continued to ignore her. Plucking another die off the carpet, he went to place it alongside the other. Suddenly hands were beneath his arms as the woman, Sarah, finally got frustrated, and drug him back across the carpet.

Nate just stared at her blankly as she sat herself between him and his building. The finger in his hair twisted harder, but his expression didn't change. She made a small motion with her hand.

"This is your name." She explained. "Your turn."

Nate just leaned to peer around her at his building, rolling the single die between his thumb and forefinger.

"Near, pay attention, or I'll take the dice away." Finally, his eyes narrowed, the first sign of emotion crossing his features since he arrived here. To her shock, he set the die down and his hands began moving furiously as he signed.

_Did it ever occur to you that I already know sign language and simply do not wish to speak with you? _

Sarah stared, eyes wide before numbly signing back.

_How did you learn it?_

_The woman at the other orphanage taught me. Now leave me alone. I do not wish to speak to you._

_Near that isn't very nice._

_My name is Nate. Go away._

She watched the tiny boy crawl around her to finish working on his building.

XXXX

"He already knows it?"

"Yes sir…more fluently than I do." 

"...Very well then. I suppose we should leave him be."

"I disagree, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"I think we shouldn't indulge him. If we leave him alone, he may never recover."

"Every time we've forced contact Sarah, he's either become violent, or slipped back into the catatonic state they found him in. I don't want to risk that becoming permanent." Roger stood slowly, and Sarah sighed.

"I still think he needs human contact."

Roger's eyes hardened. "That's why you're our language specialist, Sarah. Not our psychologist. You're dismissed."

XXXX

Nate paused as his fingers hovered over the dice building; his next piece nearly in place. His dark eyes froze, glassy as he stared at the wall of white and black spots. He'd heard it. His entire body tensed, the die slipping from his fingers as he pulled away sharply. The sound came again…quiet, barely there…the sound of breaking glass.

His dark eyes tore away when the white and black began moving, the colors shifting violently. Looked at the wall; he focused on it, and the dizziness stopped. The chime came again, of glass hitting the tiled floor. Tile? It was carpet beneath his toes. His arm snuck around his knee, a finger twisting into his hair. He gripped hard, his head tilting to the side as he closed his eyes and listened.

It came again. From the hall, the hall outside his bedroom. A coldness crept into his bones, slipped under the door and wrapped itself around his soul…the window was broken.

The window was broken.

The dizziness hit him again, the cold biting sharper, and though his chest constricted in a whimper, no sound came out. It came back, louder this time, and his eyes opened once more, staring at the blank expanse of white wall before him. The door. He stood, shakily, blood freezing in his veins as he moved forward. The room spun a bit, but again, no sound left his throat when his body tried to whimper or cry out. It was becoming hard to breathe.

He took a lilting step forward, and the sound was so loud it made him jump. The room shifted violently, and he froze, because if he could just stand still, it would right itself again. Tremors wracked his body, ripping through his small frame like a kitten left in the snow. Cold…it was so cold…the door knob was beneath his hands, and he pulled it open.

XXXX

Roger watched the door slam behind his language assistant and felt slightly guilty for snapping at her. He'd been at this post for almost fifty years however, he knew how to read his children. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes tiredly. On the laptop screen before him, it the top corner, was the security screen for the solitary hall. If he'd glanced up, he'd have seen Near's door opening inch by inch. He'd have seen the boy peering out into his hall, his face blank. He might even have noticed the way he shook, the way his movements jerked like a person just released after a long time of being bound in one position.

But Roger was tired…

And he didn't look up.

XXXX

The sound of glass, glass hitting the floor, hitting the tiles, and the breeze was cold as it washed over his thin white socks. The tile beneath his bare feet was smooth, slippery, and he was very quiet.

The window was broken.

The finger at his hair pulled…pulled faintly, gently, and then finally fell away, his arms drifting to his sides. Dizziness, followed by a wave of nausea, gripped him again, and he paused until it passed. There was simply nothing in his stomach for his body to reject, and it amounted to nothing…another moment of the world rolling strangely before his eyes, of colors shifting like living things.

The window was broken.

His head tilted to the side again, lips slightly parted as he tried to be silent, still…even to silence his breathing. It wasn't enough and he held his breath. He body trembled wildly, a rabbit going into shock, and he took another step forward before the cold froze him place. The sound came again, and echoed, terrifyingly loud in his ears. The high tones ran together, lilting into a painful screech, and unspeakable ringing. His small hands came to cover his ears, trying to block it out but it only grew louder, coming from everywhere.

The window was broken, the window, the _window_…

His eyes, glassy and unseeing, stared into the open air over the stairs, stared, seeing his hallway. Glass hit the tiles, ringing off the carpet beneath his sock. Cold air rushed in from the night sky, washed over his bare feet, chilling him to the bone, and he took another step forward.

The ringing stopped. Everything stopped. The sound of his own breathing filled his ears.

The window was broken.

_Why?_

XXXX

Roger looked up in time to watch Near's body crumple to the ground, his eyes open and unfocused, his breathing labored. He peered at the screen only a second before slamming his hand onto the microphone by his desk.

"Response team to the Solitary, room 32. Child is unconscious. Repeat, I need a team to Solitary."

His heart pounded in his ears as he rounded the desk, fear for the young making his old limbs limber again.

Near had fallen only inches from the flight of stairs…a fall that likely would have killed him.


	3. Black and White

AN- Um...this chapter is strange. Creepy too. Bear with me. (huggles Home and Love) -Kani

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder came in many forms. Sometimes, a shattered mind would slip into a place where reality could not reach it. Nate didn't know what it was called, but he knew what it was like to be trapped in his own body, unable to move or think, or even really be alive

It was wrong, he was still alive. He knew it…but he couldn't see. He couldn't hear anything. He couldn't move.

It was so cold.

The window was broken.

Why?

That was the question that had shut his mind down, completely disconnected him from everything real. Here, in the silence, in his own private prison, he imagined himself staring at the question…facing it down like a living creature. There was the black, and there was the white. He was the white…the black was his eyes, and the world, the cold.

No, that didn't make sense.

It was everything. There in the black, was Nate River. The white…and as he saw nothing, the black was in his eyes. Something wrong there, something off…but the thought was gone now.

Why?

Right…why? In the corner of his mind he saw another white. A white besides Nate. That shouldn't be there…he stared at it, trying to force into the black and cold with his eyes, with his black eyes.

That didn't make sense.

He tried anyway…tried because the window was broken. That clicked something together in his mind, and the other white…the other white became why. He moved forward carefully. His steps made no noise, both numb with the cold.

A ball of yarn. A white ball of yarn, and that was why.

His disjointed minds well enough that it was a metaphor, that his childish thoughts were turning something very complicated into something that he could grasp here, in the black and white.

Yarn it was, then.

He reached forward, touching his fingertips to it, rolling it slightly in the void they inhabited. It was big…as tall as his stomach and very round. The blackness was cold, but the white, the white yarn was warm. He put his hands on it, filled with wonder at the warmth it gave him. He dug his fingers in, weaving them into the white threads and it was warmer below. Pleasantly surprised, a small smile came to his face.

This was white. This was why. He began playfully burrowing his way into the yarn, pushing it aside, worming his slender arms into the heat up to his elbows. It was lovely, and if his feet weren't so cold, he might have felt his toes curling.

The yarn warmed further, now with loops hanging from the sides from his antics. They swung gently as he slowly fisted his hands in the make-shift gloves of yarn. His smile grew wider, as the warmth spread and the yarn moved. It wrapped just big snugger around his arms, making him feel safe with this small haven of warmth, and he completely forgot about why.

He tried lifting and found it weightless, which was quite amusing. This large ball of yarn that weighed nothing…his smile came back, along with his curiosity. He began wandering through the black, not entirely sure why he was there. He wasn't the only white anymore though. This ball of yarn, this was white too, and so he must take it with him.

He wandered for hours, and he finally began to worry again. Why was he here? Why…

Oh.

Why.

That's right.

He looked down at the yarn around his arms, and he frowned. This was why…this was…

He yelped as the yarn tightened brutally around his small arms. Hundred of strands tightened unmercifully, cutting off the blood to his lower arms. He began fighting, making low sounds of terror in his throat as he struggled against the binding hold.

The warmth began to heat up again, and it was becoming hot. The loose strands he'd pulled about as he dug into Why slithered tight again, and then began snaking up his arms. The threads moved across his forearms and hands, pulling so tight that the fragile skin beneath them began to rip under the tension. He cried louder, throwing himself to the ground in an effort to kick the ball away, but it did no good as it inched it's way closer to his chest, holding him tightly, so tightly.

A moment later, he felt the blood flowing into the yarn from his abused skin, rubbed raw and blistering under the heat and friction. No more, no more, the window was broken, why?

Why was the window broken?

He couldn't think of anything else, and the yarn throbbed around his poor hands, working them with unbelievable pressure. His arms folded in on themselves as the white ball inched closer, and he felt his heart would stop in his chest. Why was the window broken?

A low keening wail of absolute terror rang in his throat, and he could feel the blood slick on his arms, the threads pulling, rubbing the skin away. It felt as though he'd shoved his hands into an oven, the heat, and cold blackness, and there was nothing, nothing out there, no one to help him, why was the window broken?

The threads worked their way up, and the looser ends slowly wrapped themselves around his throat, he felt them sliding over his ears, scratching down his face. He rolled over, pushing down, down, trying to push it away, but his arms only sank deeper, and the window was broken why? The strands tightening around his throat, rubbing and pulling and there was blood there too, but he couldn't see it, he couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he could not breathe…

Why was the window broken?

XXXX

"Sedate him! He's going into shock!"

"Why isn't he breathing?"

"I don't know! Pry his arm away, I've the got the Lorazepam."

"Why is he clutching his chest…C'mon Near, gimme a vein…"

XXXX

His vision alternated red and white, and that was wrong, because this was the black, and why was the window broken. So cold, he couldn't breathe; he could feel his windpipe collapsing under the strain. His heart was in his ears, his cries choked off, and in his panic, he thrashed.

XXXX

"FUCK, someone hold him!"

"It's not a seizure, he's dreaming!"

"I don't care! Hold him so I can get this in!"

XXXX

Pain, pain that was not why. It was there and it was gone, and he could feel the skin breaking around his slender throat, and the white and red was not black.

It was not black…

The window was broken…

The white began to fade…the blackness crept forward, but it was not longer cold. He watched it cover his knees, creep up his thighs, and then even the yarn faded. It dimmed fading off into the void, into the black…the black in his eyes.

That didn't make any sense.

XXXX

"Okay…okay he's out, back up."

"Check his vitals, Nona…Eric, how's his heart?"

"Slowing down, but he's coming out of it."

"Responsive?"

"No, still glassy. Jesus, what happened? He was fine…"

"I don't know. He's catatonic again, but at least he's not dreaming."

"His lips are moving…"

"What's he saying?"

"I dunno…looks like broken window."


	4. Mad as a Hatter

AN- Short Chapter, because I feel I owe you all and explanation, and my internet situation is difficult. Difficult as in...it's been cut off, and I'm currently hacking my neighbors' wireless. (polishes halo) Ahem. That being said, I will be writing more, I promise, but updating may be difficult and sporadic. All depends on the signal. (wolf grin) Soooo...If I don't reply to your messages, drop me a line on my forum. It's called Concerto in D Minor, and I'd love to hear from all of you. More soon, yours until then. - Kani

"Talk to me…what just happened to him?"

"We think it's a symptom of PTSD…Post Traumatic Stress Disorder." Roger nodded, moving to sit at this desk and motioning the others into the chairs across from him.

"Please continue."

"We think it's a defensive mechanism…a type of dissociative disorder caused by the PTSD. He's trying to cope with what happened, but his mind refuses to let him. Any effort to deal with his situation or possibly some kind of trigger will force his mind to sever itself from reality. His thoughts are…disjointed, scattered. He's basically finding out what's broken, and then being forced away to deal with it. We've been monitoring him for the last three days, and he seems to slip in and out of some of form of REM sleep."

"If it's sleep, why hasn't he woken up?"

"Forced catatonia…he's pretty much refusing to come back until he's figured himself out."

"He'll have to come back eventually though, right?"

"Yes, likely when the body can't take the stress anymore. He keeps talking about a window."

"A window?"

"Yes, we called Sarah in to lip-read when he starting talking in his sleep. He's keeps repeating 'The window's broken.'."

"That's how the murderer got into his home that night…he broke in the through the window."

"So that may be what he's trying to fix. He's trying to understand what happened…"

"Don't question him about it when he comes around. We don't know what triggered the episode, and we don't want to risk another. Unless it becomes dangerous, just let them happen."

"It's not easy on him sir."

"There's more?"

"He's…having nightmares. I don't know how or what is going on inside his head, but we had to sedate him last time because he was throwing his system into shock. I don't know how he managed to sink deep enough into the psychosis to do that, but he's not making it any easier on himself."

"What did you dose with him with?"

"Lorazepam, sir. It's strong, but we'd have been using it anyway when he slipped into seizures."

"Wean him off of it, and switch to one of the lighter one…he's too little to handle something like that consistently."

"Yes sir. He needs to find someway of coping…he'll do permanent damage to himself if he can't learn to control it."

"What kind of damage?"

"It depends really…he may go permanently catatonic, he may piece himself back together, or he may end up tearing himself even further."

"How so?"

"From what we've seen, it looks at though he's hiding the murder away in his head, refusing to acknowledge its existence. The fact that it takes an episode like this for him to try and accept it suggests that he's forcing himself to separate between that memory and his present surroundings."

"He's splitting his mind in half."

"To put it bluntly, yes. If he refuses to fix the damage, or he's unable to, it may eventually degrade into severe bi-polar disorder, schizophrenia, and possibly force him to divide his personality."

"Worst case scenario?"

"He can't even manage that, and his mind completely fractures…leaving you with a genius that's absolutely insane."

"…Well then. Give him three episodes to straighten himself out…if he can't, then we'll step up the treatment and impose therapy. Keep the drugs minimal, and don't give him a feeding tube, no matter the case. We want him to come out of this, and if we have to starve him back into reality, then fine. Do it."

"Understood."

"I want the tapes, security and audio, reviewed and I want a list of possible triggers on my desk in two days. Do a full physical, while he's out…might as well cheat, since the poor thing doesn't know what's going on."

"Understood sir."

"And Eric?"

"Yes?"

"Give him his bunny. Call me the second he wakes up."

"Yes, Roger."

XXXX

Nate watched the blackness slowly drift off again. His thoughts returned, and he was again aware of the black and white. A dim glow in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he froze at the sight of the white yarn. Memories of pain surfaced dully, indistinct words and phrases, fleeting glimpses of emotion that made him wary. The yarn was bad. The window was broken. The yarn was why. Why was important. However…why was bad.

That made sense. Finally.

He walked…drifted, glided, however one moves in void. Perhaps he lifted his feet in the motion of walking simply to amuse himself. He didn't touch the yarn, pausing a few feet away. He crouched down, instead, resting his chin on his knees as he thought. He thought long and hard about the window, and why.

But he didn't touch it.

He wasn't read to touch it yet.


	5. In the Name of Optimus

Nate returned the woman's stare with one of granite. No child should have been able to put up a defense like that, to be capable of completely looking through a person as though they didn't exist. Children are famed for their perception, their unique insights into the complications of life.

Nate didn't care.

This Nona person was refusing to give him his toy back. She pushed the paper across the table firmly, returning his stare with one just as solid. The crayons rolled across the table, some even to the floor, and Nate regarded the blank sheet like a snake waiting to bite him. His large, dark eyes flicked between the small Hispanic woman and the crayons again.

"Draw something."

His lip curled in a slight sneer, something that he wasn't aware he could do. His finger wrapped itself into his hair again, tugging continuously, mimicking the tight string of irritation that those big brown eyes inspired.

"If you want Optimus Prime back, you will draw something."

He sighed…huffed rather, turning his eyes to the window, and tried to ignore the head of his action figure that was just visible over the table's edge. This Nona lady took no prisoners…the toy was clutched firmly in her lap. The plastic stare was almost accusing. She'd come in without a word and swept her arm over the small table, sending his toys to the floor. Before he could move to defend it, she'd taken his favorite, his Transformer, and plucked it from his small hands like a grape from the vine.

Nate's mouth had actually fallen open in surprise.

The paper and crayons hit the table with a rattle, and she pulled up the chair across from him. Optimus Prime settled into her lap and fist like a prisoner of war, and so the battle of wills had begun.

And that had been three hours ago.

Every fifteen minutes or so, she'd prompt him to draw something…specifically anything he'd dreamed about recently. A ball of white yarn came to mind immediately, but that was ridiculous. Why would he dream about yarn?

And anyway, it was white yarn…one could not draw white yarn on white paper. He'd need black construction paper or something of that sort.

"Near, draw something."

She hadn't actually threatened Nate, or his toy even…but something about the request didn't sit well with him. Something about it made him want to leave, and never mind Optimus and the war they'd been waging on the X-men. Her voice grated on his nerves, her soft Spanish accent digging in beneath his skin and giving him the urge to squirm in his seat. He didn't however, just returned that hard stare with his own.

The clock ticked on.

"Draw something."

Nate contented himself to musing over their differences, and how it could be indicative of their place of birth. It wasn't anything scientific, or even overly advanced…just something that his child's mind would think on. The way he was white, like the colder place that he lived in…and she was brown. Dark brown hair and eyes…even her skin was darker than his, the color of wood. She was middle aged, and he was a child, but he knew even then that he'd outgrow her…he'd be tall and lanky, and she'd always be small and stout.

"Near, you have to draw something."

He really wished she would stop talking. The tug at his temple became sharper every word. His eyes often strayed…in fact, it was quite gratifying to listen to her sigh when he ignored her. His slight sneer stayed in place, though he was completely unaware of it. Optimus Prime stared back at him, his shiny face plate glinting in the sunlight. He was the leader of a fierce robot army, of course, and so Nate was very proud to have this particular action figure in his armada.

"You can have him back if you draw something."

Nate didn't even glance at her, just moved his eyes from the shiny toy back to the wall. He rested his chin on his knee and stared off into space.

Hours crawl when one has someone insistent to share them with. Really, it was ridiculous how slowly time passed. Seven hours and counting had gone between the two of them, Optimus, and that blank sheet of paper. The sun had long set in the window, and Nate thought that if she asked him to draw something one more time, he'd rip the hair from his head.

She opened her mouth, and he cut her off with a raised hand, still staring out the window. She cocked her head to the side, a smile beginning in one corner of her mouth. Nate turned his eyes back to hers slowly, his lips carving that sneer out the ice of his expression.

She waited.

He made her wait.

Finally, with a last glance at Optimus, his hand strayed from his hair to the crayon box. His small fingers selected a single stick of colored wax, the black one, and he regarded the paper for another moment.

His eyes met hers again, and she nodded…likely to encourage him. Seven hours will wear on one's patience however, and he was anything but obliged. He sighed through his nose and drew the paper across the table to rest in front of him. He set the crayon stick to the page, and she leaned forward.

He cut his eyes at her and she pulled back again, pursing her lips. Optimus cursed him over the expanse of table-top.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and then let the pen move. He didn't look at the page as he drew, and instead pinned Nona's eyes defiantly. He refused to let her look at the paper, the tiny, distasteful sneer still pulling at his lips.

Three seconds later, he stood abruptly, snatching the page up before she could glance at it and holding it to his chest, concealing his work.

She waited.

He made her wait longer.

The crayon stick fell to the table and rolled against the box when he tossed it down. His face still nearly unreadable, his eyes still deathly cold, he turned the page around in one smooth movement, his fingers at the top. He gave her five seconds to acknowledge the tiny scribble in the heart of the white paper.

A small black smiley face.

Five seconds exactly, and then he ripped it smoothly in two. The halves were still drifting to the table when the door slammed behind him.

Nona sat there for another minute, trembling. The action figure clacked hard against the table as she slammed it down and rested her head in her hands.

"Shit."


End file.
